Current mood: contemplative

Hi Everyone,

This is mother's day, the one day I hate most. Why? because I don't have a mother. She died when I was six and a couple of my friends who are very empathetic, make a point of calling me to say, "Thinking of you today."

Yesterday, I attended a mother's day luncheon at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Had my lovely cousin not been the organizer of it and had the cause not been so great (Greek Orthodox Church children's charities) I could never have been persuaded to eat rubber chicken and fork over $15 to valet park my beach cruiser.

In truth, it was a really fun day with groovy swag bags from Napoleon Perdis, raffle tickets with awesome prizes (including $1,000 cash and a jewelry and purse set Samantha used in Sex and the City). There was a fashion show, which proved that the truth is stranger than fiction. We had our own Sex and the City moment when a couple of models fell on a slippery spot on the runway.

My cousin paid homage to her own mother in her welcoming speech and her childhood memories of visiting Bullock's Tea Room on Wilshire with her late mom reduced me and her dad to tears. What a manly pair we were, mopping our faces with starched linen napkins.

It opened up a whole can of emotional worms. The luncheon, A Mother's Legacy honored the humanitarian efforts of one mother in the room and of course, my thoughts strayed to my own beautiful mother who died way too soon at the age of 37 in a horrible way. Colon cancer, which back then had no form of treatment.

She was a true humanitarian. Nobody gave her prizes or threw banquets in her honor. But my mother was a woman of such heart and soul, that I have no doubt why God took her from us so soon. She was just so pure.

My favorite memory of her is when I was five. My father, who worked two jobs supporting his family, drove a taxi at night for Red Deluxe Cabs. Think Sydney, Australia, circa 1970s. Anyway, he was always bringing home cats, dogs, birds...Anything and anyone sick or injured got the royal treatment from my lovely mother.

One night, dad came home very, very early in the morning, before dawn, with a lady in a torn dress, hair looking weird, makeup running down her cheeks. My mother, as Greek as they came, went running out to the driveway and I woke up, looked out the window and saw my parents helping this poor, limping creature into our apartment.

I watched from the kitchen door as my mother made strong Greek coffee and pressed home baked coulourakia on this woman who sobbed and mentioned the word "John" and "beat me up and ripped me off" as my mother gently took the wig from her - as it turned out, his - head. This was my first meeting with a transvestite.

Her/his name was Vera. My mom brushed out the hooker's wig and placed it back on her head, cleaned up her makeup and tried to persuade her to report the attack to the police. But Vera was, even to my young eyes...strung out on something. She was babbling and shaky. My father was freaking out because he said there were "purple hearts" all over the floor of the cab. As my mother lectured Vera about standing up for herself and how she had rights, I watched a beautiful suburban housewife give a Kings Cross hooker her dignity back.

I toddled off to find those pretty purple hearts on the floor of the cab. I didn't see any purple hearts, but I saw a ton of pills. I was about to swallow one when my dad caught me, smacking it out of my hand. The look my mother gave my father for letting me get close to drugs, would have smelted metal.

My father had to wait while my mum (as we call them in Oz) gave Vera a fresh perspective on her life, a new focus and direction. And a care package of wonderful food. When my father's latest stray was patched up and loaded down with some good strong pride in her belly, my father took her to the nearest police station.

That was the thing about  my mother. She did not judge. She did not criticize.

She made my dad clean up the cab, made me get back into bed and made Vera care about herself in a way nobody had in a very long time.

As I stood waiting for the valet guy to bring my chariot back to me yesterday, I noticed the Beverly Wilshire Hotel has the words Via Con Dios, Walk With God, written in tile across their massive driveway.

I took it as a sign that my beautiful mother is up there, patching up more strays at heaven's door. I know she walks with God. But her beauty, her grace, her love. That is my mother's legacy.

Aloha oe,

A.J.